My Hair is a Curse
As I’m walking down the streets of New Delhi, India, I can feel the stares from street vendors covered in oil and sweat from the hot and humid summer air. I can feel the stares from women draped in cheap, dull colored saris. I can feel the stares from children who look around my age, fourteen, with their battered and muddy clothes. I can feel the stares. Because even though both my parents are Indian and appear to be Indian, I somehow look foreign. My hair is a chestnut brown, my skin is lighter than others, and my outfit is from American retail stores. I closely follow behind my parents as we walk to my grandparents house, because I’m afraid I’ll get lost while taking in the beauty in this familiar yet unfamiliar country. Although the streets are dirty and there are loud honking noises everywhere, I quite like the different environment. It’ busy and loud, unlike the quiet and clean Bay Area. The smells of spicy and fresh pani puri water fill my nose and I’m intrigued by the white cows on the side of the road, lazily moving their tails, unbothered by the people and cars around them. As I’m walking, I see a familiar park, a signal to me that we are close to my grandparents apartment, or as they call it in India, flat. As we go up the stairs of the flat to the third floor, I can hear my grandma opening the door and saying “you’ve come?” I suspect she had seen us from the balcony. I’m right. We are welcomed in and my mom touches my grandma’ feet to take her blessings. A few hours of catching up and a delicious home cooked meal later, my grandma brings me with her to the park downstairs and introduces me to her friend’ grandchildren. I vaguely recall their faces since I spent time with them the last time I visited India, a few years ago. There is a girl named Yukta, and a boy named Rohan. As soon as I approach them, they immediately recognize me and have excited expressions on their faces. They ask how I’ve been for the past few years. We have a lot of catching up to do. They mention that my hair is still brown and I try to explain to them that it’ genes but they try to convince me that it’ because I was born in America. They call me “angrezi” which means “Americanized” in Hindi. After catching up a bit and playing a game involving running, we decide to sit on a ledge on the side of the park and play a game that involves names of Hindi movies. They’re both surprised that I know so many movies, and I just shrug and tell them I love Hindi movies and songs.
The next day morning when I wake up early to go visit my dad’ side of the family, I wake up with three mosquito bites. My grandma laughs and tells me that they love American blood. When I reach the new place I would be staying that night, all my cousins and aunts marvel over me as if I’m some rare foreign species. They all comment on how American I look, and of course they mention that my hair is still as brown as it was the last time I saw them as if they expect it to change every time I come. They don’t believe that it’ not dyed, and just like Yukta and Rohan, they tell me that my hair color comes from the location I was born. Although I know that that’ not true, I agree to disagree because I know that if I try to explain, I know they won’t listen. They comment on my perfect hindi, and they say that they do not expect me to be able to speak this way since I live in an area where no one speaks Hindi with one another. They comment on my clothing style and how Americanized I dress. They ask if my friends are American and I attempt to explain that in America there’ more than just white people but they don’t seem to understand the idea of a melting pot. Later on we take a rickshaw to a cute little cafe a few blocks away. My cousins and aunt let me choose what to order and they are yet again surprised that I choose “bhel chaat” instead of something more popular like potato samosas. In the cafe, the song “Hello” by Adele is playing and my cousins say that they’re playing “my type” of music because they know that someone from America is here. I shake my head jokingly and smile.
At the end of the trip, instead of feeling more cultured, I feel like through the whole trip I was singled out and pushed out of a place that was supposed to feel so much like home. Although my friends and relatives were so intrigued by how Americanized I was, I failed to explain to them that I really was not. Little do they know that Hindi movies are my favorite to watch. Little do they know that I have a Spotify playlist with all the knewest Hindi songs with over three hundred followers on it. Little do they know that the majority of my friends are Indian. Little do they know that I was learning classical Indian dance at the moment and that I was planning to have my Arangetram a few years later (I ended up completing my Arangetram a little over a year later, to which my family was very shocked to hear). Little do they know that I was planning to audition for all the Bollywood dance teams in high school and college. My brown hair was a curse. I wish I could fit in in this place that I want to call home. But instead, I was labeled “American” and I was marveled over like a trophy when really I’m more cultured than my own brother who was born in India. I’m really grateful that my parents raised me with culture and taught me so much about India, but by visiting India, I felt like maybe it would have been better to just stay Americanized. Maybe next time when I visit India, I’ll show them my “desi” dance moves, and talk to them about my Indian playlist and my favorite Hindi moves and all the Indian events like garbas and Diwali parties that I go to with my friends every year. Maybe I’ll tell them the names of my friends: Aashia, Jay, Sonia, Kamesh, and the other countless names of Indian friends I have. Just maybe, then they’ll understand that it doesn’t matter that I live literally across the world from the origin of my culture, because I can bring it back home with me.